


soft...

by catpoop



Category: Banana Fish (Anime & Manga)
Genre: (in ch4), Abuse, Alcohol, Angsty Introspection, Childhood, Childhood Trauma, Gen, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Mild spoilers from Manga, Minor Character Death, Post-Canon, Power Imbalance, Pre-Canon, oops mild spoilers r now MAJOR SPOILERS, yut lung-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-08
Updated: 2018-10-16
Packaged: 2019-07-28 02:50:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16232690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catpoop/pseuds/catpoop
Summary: Yut-Lung turns ten, and he's not sure how to feel about it. And then the year after that, he turns eleven. Twelve. Thirteen.--a series of glimpses into Yut-Lung's life





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> wrow the first godDang thing ive written since that failed attempt at sheith month back in july..... may banana fish buoy me towards productivity with its angst + suffering
> 
> edit: moose drew [ART](https://twitter.com/butleronduty/status/1049946884566016001) FOR CHAPTER 2 WOW GO CHECK IT OUT

The day Yut-Lung turns ten, he awakes to a special sight. A broad hand through his shoulder-length hair, a fingertip to his chin, and a bruising grip to his shoulder before the unconscious frown on his face unfolds into alertness and he bucks awake to the sight of Wang-Lung smiling almost benevolently down at him.

“Good morning, little brother.” A finger sweeps through the downy hair at his forehead before Yut-Lung recoils against the pillow. “You are looking delicate as ever, I might almost be mistaken to think…”

There’s a moment of contemplation, as the both of them wait for whatever is to come next, before a soft exhale and his brother forcefully concludes the one-sided conversation. “If only Father could see you now. Good luck with your studies today, Yut-Lung.” He disappears as silently as he had entered as Yut-Lung sits frozen, still digesting the warning.

The door clicks closed.

At the sound, his hands curl claws into the coverlet, and Yut-Lung bores angry eyes into the carvings adorning the door. Curse his brother for being an omnipresent menace, ruining his day before it even started. He swallows jerkily, the angered growl that wants to emerge disappearing back down his gullet to churn heavily in his belly. No point in aggravating his brother – who must be in an especial mood if he felt like personally making a ‘birthday’ visit. There was nothing celebratory about their stilted conversation, and he shudders to think how long Wang-Lung might’ve been standing there while he was asleep. Not long, busy man as he is, but it rankles Yut-Lung to think that their first conversation in weeks has been yet another jab at his dead mother.

The last time had been at the dining table, in front of the rest of the family, when he had remarked how only the son of a whore could have such atrocious table manners. _And the son of the most powerful man in Hong Kong,_ Yut-Lung glared into his plate, chewing robotically at whatever tasteless mush had been in his mouth at the time (he can’t remember, now, not when the entire memory is clouded with a putrid stink).

They might as well sell him off like her now that he’s ten, he thinks angrily, tearing the blankets off the bed and throwing them to the ground in the most pathetic of tantrums. His movements are stiff and practised as, a moment later, he remakes the bed layer by layer in a manner befitting only the most qualified housekeepers hired by the Lee family.

Something about training the bad genes out of him, but he bets Wang-Lung and the others have never had to do a thing for themselves, not as esteemed heirs to the family.

…At least he’ll be a qualified wife or servant or whatever they want to do with him. 

Kicking his slippered feet at the floor (the bed is no longer an option), Yut-Lung stomps to the ensuite, tamping down his anger in the mirror before whatever living hell is about to unfold at breakfast. Or maybe if he’s lucky, he’ll be allowed to take it by himself in the kitchen – they’d never really liked eating with ‘infants’, and Yut-Lung is pretty sure he’ll never be seen as an equal or full-blooded Lee until the day he rots in his grave.

He isn’t sure which is better – to be servant to the Lee family or to be bound by blood. 

 

The mansion is large, larger so to a ten-year old’s skinny legs, and it takes a frustrating amount of time to navigate to the dining hall. He fights the urge to break into a run, knowing that in his current state, he’ll only barrel towards the nearest exit in a bid for escape. Not that he’d survive a day outside.

Grimacing, Yut-Lung reaches for the towering double doors that guard the dining hall. The smell of fresh rice and meats wafts in from within and his growling stomach is the only thing that forces him to take a step forwards, then another. Well, that and the wrath of his brothers.

Thankfully, Hua-Lung is the only one there, and he takes a hesitant seat to his left. His brother grunts in greeting. As the youngest at nineteen, he’s marginally better than the others, if not by much. They eat in silence, Yut-Lung tense with the possibility of another ‘conversation’. But his brother soon departs with no more than a nod, and Yut-Lung breathes a sigh of relief that Wang-Lung hasn’t made emotional blackmail everyone’s mission for the day. 

The feelings of a ten-year old wouldn’t rank high on his list of priorities, anyway, but that only makes Yut-Lung seethe even more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> may add onto this bc rn this is very much spontaneous abstract fic w no sense of purpose or organisation............... liek my Lyfe.............


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The mark of the Lee family is bestowed onto its youngest member - not that Yut-Lung has a choice in whether he agrees to it or not

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yay More hurty this vent fic is a lot of fun

On his thirteenth birthday, like every member of his family before him, Yut-Lung is to receive the special mark of the Lee clan. He wakes up woozy, nursing a throbbing headache that he has no doubt is due to the impending _event_. It’s nothing grand, but just the thought of being surrounded by his family as they wait for him to cry out in pain or worse is enough to send his breakfast back up. Not to mention the design itself, crudely tying him to his brothers and extended family.

He scratches idly at his neck, brow furrowing in irritation at the thought of the intricate dragon adorning Wang-Lung’s bicep and Hua-Lung’s left shoulder. Why his _neck_ , anyway? Who decided that?

…As it turns out, probably his eldest brother.

The quiet grin on his face is nothing short of feral as Yut-Lung hesitantly enters the lounge and takes a seat on the only empty couch. His brothers and a few servants occupy the rest of the room, looking anywhere between bored and… strangely hungry.

“He’ll be here soon,” Wang-Lung comments, and Yut-Lung doesn’t have to wait long to see the familiar face of the Lee family’s trusted tattoo artist. Childhood memories float to the surface of sitting on his brothers’ laps and watching one unfortunate victim after another go through the process. The last – Wang-Lung’s wife, had cried out at the first sting to her right breast, but had otherwise stayed remarkably composed.

Yut-Lung shivers.

The man – Wong – has soothingly gentle hands, but he feels no less uneasy at being manoeuvred into a supine position, then man-handled until he faces his brothers and the side of his neck is properly exposed. 

The firm pillow beneath his head doesn’t help his headache.

“I will be applying the template now, young master,” Yut-Lung hears through the fog of humiliation and discomfort clouding his senses. He stiffens at the sudden cool sting to his skin, then the clammy pressure of a broad hand half-wrapping around his neck and pressing the template into place. He gulps uneasily.

“Don’t move now, little brother,” someone gleefully cautions him, and there’s nothing he can do except for lie there, physically pinned in place and sweating before his brothers’ idle gazes. 

Just as he’s starting to get comfortable – what little comfort he can derive from the situation, eyes shuttered and gazing down at the carpet instead of addressing the people around him, a buzzing starts up and he jerks straight up, into a firm grip on his neck.

“Relax, sir.”

Yut-Lung rolls his eyes, petulant. He tries to take a calming breath like he’s been taught in meditation, but then the pressure increases on his windpipe until he doubts he can squeeze a molecule of air down his throat. To pull the skin taut, he distantly remembers, but no one had said a thing about _choking_ to death!

He whimpers at the first sting of metal on skin. Someone chuckles heartily in front of him.

“This is just the outline, and then we can take a break, sir.”

The words float in through the haze of panic creeping in under his skin, barely audible for the burning sensation just below his jaw and each gasping breath he manages and the subdued mutters of his family around him. He digs nails into his palms and feels the back of the couch trapping him in place. If only he could wrestle the man to the ground and the turn the needle on his weakest points…

But he’d suffer something brutal for that, and they’d never leave his tattoo half-finished.

He swallows another whimper and scrunches his eyes closed, body tense with discomfort. The buzzing has built up to deafening levels now, each whine piercing his eardrum like the stab wounds in his skin. So when the accursed machine finally turns off, he barely registers the lack of noise – only a ringing in his brain that doesn’t ease until the pressure lifts off his neck. A servant is by his side immediately.

“Would you like some water, sir?” She helps sit him upright, and Yut-Lung curses his own stupid body to the high heavens when his vision clears and he registers the sight of his brothers all watching him with amusement. He leans woozily against the armrest, forcing himself to stay upright, and takes a small sip.

“Look at you, soon to become a man Father would be proud of.” There’s nothing but snide satisfaction in Wang-Lung’s voice, though his face remains schooled in a neutral expression.

He takes another sip of water to avoid replying, and Wong soon comes to his rescue. 

“Would the young master like to continue?”

“Yes, please.” Yut-Lung nods jerkily, before rearranging himself back in that previous position, crossing his arms over his chest for lack of something else to hold onto. Despite knowing what is to happen next, he can’t help but stiffen as the machine starts back up, then flinch at the first stab of pain.

The colouring-in will take longer, he knows, but how he’s supposed to survive the previous experience plus an extra however many minutes or so, he has no clue.

Something red-hot licks at the tender, irritated tissue of his neck and he curls even further into himself. For all his quality work, the tattoo artist couldn’t go any damn slower, and Yut-Lung tries focusing on that, or anger of any other kind, before he’s reduced back into a snivelling little baby in front of his family.

It doesn’t work, as he soon finds out.

Halfway through the third elaborate fantasy of disembowelling Wang-Lung, he sinks into unconsciousness and comes to to that same irritating face, but a little more alive than the stark death mask in his thoughts.

“Are you alright, little brother?” A thumb sweeps beneath his left eye and he’s too out of it to flinch away, eyes darting around to find the room mostly empty and Wong packing away his equipment.

“Huh?”

“You may be weak, but there’s no reason to sob over something like this.” Another swipe up his cheek – to smear away his tear tracks, Yut-Lung quickly realises, and he uselessly smacks at his brother’s hand.

“Get away from me! Aren’t we done here? Go back to your work or whatever.”

“Now, now, don’t be like that.” Wang-Lung addresses him like a small child. “What brother would I be if I didn’t look after my family?”

Yut-Lung frowns, but stays silent.

A firm hand on his bicep tugs him to his feet and still dizzy, he has no choice but to follow Wang-Lung – to his own personal quarters, it turns out. But before he can return to the comforting familiarity of his bed, a jerk at his wrist spins him around to face his brother, and Wang-Lung catches his left shoulder to inspect the clingfilm-covered piece at his neck.

“Stunning.” He sounds bored, but the interest that sparks in his eyes before he digs a thumb into inflamed flesh startles Yut-Lung enough to flinch back. Not quickly enough, though.

“Ow!” He tries to lean away, but the sudden fingers around his nape make that impossible. He cries out with the next stab of sensation in his throbbing neck, what feels like his entire thumb digging into a raw wound. “Ow – _stop_ that!” 

Wang-Lung merely gives him a calm look. “I think you’re bleeding.”

_Of course it is_ , Yut-Lung sniffles, unsuccessfully fighting back the burning in his eyes. “Stop that! Let _go!_ ”

“… If you insist.” The pressure around his neck doesn’t ease up for a few tense seconds, until a sharp pinch to his skin leaves him gasping for breath and blinking back another wave of tears. “Enjoy your thirteenth birthday, little brother.”

Stupid. Stupid stupid.

As the door clicks shut, Yut-Lung crumples to the bed, scrubbing furiously at his traitorous eyes. Trust his brother to humiliate him at every opportunity. The anger thrumming in his chest isn’t helped by the returning headache and the burning spreading up his neck, and he buries his face in the pillow to fall into fitful sleep.

(When he awakes, it is to feverish nausea and a dull lethargy in every limb.)

 

A few weeks later, he looks in the mirror to see the figure of the intricate little dragon undulating its way across his neck, finally free of the scabs and peeling skin that were masking its design. Something sour and heavy sits at the base of his tongue, and the only thing he can think about is carving out that neat chunk of flesh with the nearest razor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kudos + comments r very appreciated!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yut-Lung contemplates the hollowness at the core of his soul

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this hcapter is the length of the last 2 combined bc there has been Zero organisation and pllaning involved in this ur welcome
> 
> thank u for all the kudos + comments + bookmarks + MOOSE'S ART (GO LOOKAT It IF U HAVENT ALREAYD)
> 
> yeah enjoy

The telephone rings, carving through the uncomfortable tension in the room. Grumbling, Golzine gets to his feet and pulls on his dressing gown before barking into the mouthpiece.

“Yes?”

At the sudden respite, Yut-Lung slumps to the bed, taking a few desperate breaths to compose himself before carefully propping his chin up on one hand to regard the man of the hour. 

“What’s the matter?” He asks once Golzine hangs up the phone.

“The wildcat has just been delivered.” The man looks smug, more satisfied than he had throughout the previous ordeal. “Clean yourself up. I’ll send someone to fetch you for tonight’s dinner party.”

“…Of course, sir,” he replies, though Golzine has already swept out of the room. Still facing the door, Yut-Lung feels his face morph into a disgruntled pout before he shifts into a more comfortable foetal position and tugs the sheet up to his ears. There’s a sudden chill in the air.

He’ll clean up _later_. Before that, a well-earned nap.

A tentative noise breaks through his rest and relaxation. “Um –”

“Yes?” Yut-Lung snaps, annoyed at the reminder of _his_ existence. “What do you _want_?”

“C-Can you untie me?” He sounds fragile, despite having done nothing but lie comfortably on the plush bed for the past however many minutes.

“What if I didn’t want to?” Petulance seeps into Yut-Lung’s voice, but he’s too tired to care. Curse his brother and curse Golzine and curse Okumura for disrupting his much-needed peace.

“Please?”

Rolling his eyes, Yut-Lung settles back into his half of the mattress, shifting a little to avoid the damp spot. If the boy just _shuts up_ for a second, then maybe he’ll be gracious enough to loosen the thick silk cords. He flips the pillow over (there’s a damp spot on there too), tugs the sheet up as far as it’ll go, and screws his eyes shut.

Of course, the brat takes that as an invitation to start up yet another conversation in his accented English.

“You – you know, I’m sorry. I know it must be hard for you to – and Golzine…”

Yut-Lung bristles. As if it wasn’t going to be _his_ turn next. He should be begging for mercy, crying out for help, anything but whatever this is supposed to be. Yut-Lung sucks in an irritated breath, clenches fingers in the sheet that’s barely hiding him.

The boy continues, still searching for something to say. “A-and…”

Yut-Lung flings the covers aside and turns to glare at him before he can finish. “What do you _want_? Why don’t you just shut up and lie there until Golzine returns?”

Terror flickers in his eyes for a brief moment, and it eases the discomfort in Yut-Lung’s belly for a second. “No! No – can you please untie me?”

Brat. “Fine.” 

The silk doesn’t easily come undone in Yut-Lung’s sweat-clammy hands, but he manages it eventually, Okumura jerking his arms away as soon as his wrists are free. Rubbing at the raw skin on his arms, he pins Yut-Lung with a shaky but defiant gaze.

“Why did you do it? Do you think it is not wrong?”

Yut-Lung wants to guffaw at the show of absolute idiocy. “You think I _wanted_ to?”

Okumura looks shamed, but continues nonetheless. “But you didn’t –”

“What? Say no? Throw so big a tantrum I had to be tied to the bed? What good would that do?” He’s said a little too much for his liking, and the pity creeping onto Okumura’s face only confirms it. He hastily continues:

“And stop making it such a big deal. Your dear little _Ash_ has had to do the same thing for years. All of Golzine’s boys – it’s a part of life, and you’d better hurry up and understand that.”

As minor a deal as it was, Yut-Lung wants to curl up in his own bed and sleep for a decade. He tries to force that lethargy out of his limbs and expression as he coolly regards Okumura, who dares to open his mouth once again.

“I am sorry, anyway… that you and Ash have to suffer. It is not right...”

A muscle twitches in Yut-Lung’s brow. The once-promising idea of getting in a nap or two before Golzine’s servant returns has long dissipated, and he wants nothing more than to barricade himself in the en suite to avoid sharing a bed with the worst roommate the world has seen. Even if it means tackling the messy ordeal of walking to the bathroom, then _standing_ in the shower.

“You should learn to shut up, before someone cuts your tongue out.” And without a second look at whatever dumb expression Okumura is making, Yut-Lung reaches for his robe and stands up as gracefully as he can, striding to the door of the en suite while hoping that Okumura will stay silent for once. He does.

Once safely locked inside, he lets out an exhale that had been stretching his lungs to near-breaking. The discomfort hasn’t faded, but at least he doesn’t have to be in the same room as _that_ thing and every idealistic fantasy he stands for.

Ash sure has bad taste…

The warm water is soothing on his skin, but it’s with a distracted frown that he lathers up, scented soap dripping down his thighs. He thinks of the first time he had met that Japanese boy, all boyishly tousled hair and doe eyes. Like one of Golzine’s type, but sickeningly _genuine_ in his childishness. And then Ash’s own response, open and comfortable and too tactile.

Yut-Lung winces and feels an answering twinge from his lower half.

The boy probably thinks he’s on the set of an action flick from the way he’s behaving, stumbling around the props and asking each actor _Is that a real gun? Did you really kill that man?”_ How Ash puts up him, Yut-Lung has no clue, and the sooner Golzine does away with him the better.

Speaking of Golzine…

Reluctantly, he shuts off the shower before Golzine’s people come a-knocking to find him still naked and dripping wet. The exhaustion hasn’t completely washed out of every pore, but it’s with a calmer countenance that he wrings his hair out, draping it across one shoulder, and digs his toes into the plush mat. He quickly reaches for the bathrobe before the air has a chance to prickle at his skin.

It’s a little short on him, probably a sign of the younger guests Golzine usually entertains. Like that _boy_ outside, Yut-Lung seethes, who is younger in everything but age. In a fit of whimsy, he wonders – maybe if _he_ had been born in Japan to loving mother and loving father…

Shaking himself, he reaches for the topmost of a stack of towels and starts at the familiar yet tedious process of drying his hair. Occasionally he’ll bemoan the task, but in this instance, the limbo of existing outside of Okumura and Golzine and everything beyond the door is soothing in its own way. 

He hums quietly, watching the way his reflection stares back at him through a veil of hair, and wonders how his mother had felt, cooped up in a house with no one she could trust. Except himself, maybe.

But what use was a child against the wrath of the world?

 

When his hair has been blow-dryed to within an inch of its life and he can finally prolong _this_ no longer, Yut-Lung steps out of the en suite and onto plush carpet. To his dismay, Okumura, now-clothed, turns to look at him the moment the door opens.

“Do you know where is Ash?”

Yut-Lung doesn’t deign this with a reply.

“You are working with Golzine, do you know –”

Tetchy, Yut-Lung snaps. “You think Golzine beds his men on the regular?” He might _not_ have, if he knew Yut-Lung were soon to rise up in the ranks of the Lee family. 

Okumura has nothing to say in reply, and for that, Yut-Lung is grateful. They sit in what could be misconstrued as a companionable silence, and the quiet is refreshing. He lets his eyelids fall shut and his frame go lax, and centres his breathing some miles above the crown of his head…

A knocking eventually interrupts him, and Yut-Lung stands up in one smooth motion to address the young lady by the open door.

“Master Yau-Si, I presume?” She asks.

“Yes.”

“If you would come with me, sir, to prepare for the dinner party.”

He shoots barely a glance at Okumura before stepping outside, but what he does see before she shuts and locks the door leaves an incomprehensible feeling in his chest.

 

That same feeling bubbles to the surface a few months later, when he’s staring at the bottles of wine arranged on the side table and contemplating his seventeenth, the business with Ash Lynx, and Blanca’s loyalty to the cause. His head feels woozy and swollen enough, but Yut-Lung reaches to top up his glass once more and downs half of it in one swallow. Acrid.

Sighing, he tips his head up, nape thumping to rest against the back of the sofa as his eyes trace dizzy swirls through the tessellated plaster patterns on the ceiling. He blames this and his drunken state for failing to notice Blanca leisurely approaching from one side. 

“How many glasses is that, now?”

Yut-Lung leisurely tilts his head to better stare up at Blanca and winces in displeasure at how the small movement makes several _somethings_ rattle painfully around in his brain. “ _None,_ ” he says curtly.

“Is that so?” Blanca leans down and deftly sneaks the half-full glass away. Yut-Lung grumbles.

“What are you doing here, anyway?”

Blanca chuckles. “What kind of bodyguard would I be if I were two rooms down from you at all times?”

“Hmph.” A pretty piss-poor bodyguard, if he’s unwilling to defend Yut-Lung from the one thing that’s causing him immeasurable discomfort: Ash Lynx’s little companion.

“Pass the wine, Your Highness?”

“Grab it yourself,” he says brusquely, waving a hand in the direction of the side table as Blanca takes a sip from the same glass and makes a noise of approval.

Glass filled, he takes a seat on the neighbouring sofa and regards Yut-Lung with what seems to be a flicker of amusement. Yut-Lung responds with his own steely glare.

“This is some quality stuff.” Blanca taps the glass with a finger. “Were you planning on finishing the whole bottle by yourself?”

Yut-Lung makes a neutral sound. He’s done that before, and it hadn’t ended well, not for him or the poor manservant who had to deal with his angry, hungover self. Despite this, he feels a sudden urge to snatch the open bottle to his chest when Blanca reaches for the wine and carelessly inspects the label. He instead stares down the broad figure of his ‘bodyguard’ currently making himself at home on the luxury sofa.

“So, have you figured out that chess conundrum I offered a few days ago?”

Yut-Lung bristles. He’s not particularly in the mood for small talk, nor the lurking reminder that this was probably one of the puzzles Blanca had thrown at a fourteen year old Ash. And the brat probably solved it within a matter of minutes, too.

He stumbles to his feet. “Give me that!” Blanca watches passively as Yut-Lung wrestles the glass from his hand and pours out another drink, then a second.

“Maybe you should lie down.” 

“Hmph. _I’m_ going to the bathroom, and you’d better piss off by the time I get back, or someone’s going to be six feet under by tomorrow.”

Blanca merely arches an eyebrow as he stumbles ungainly to the en suite.

Thankfully, dinner doesn’t come rushing back up in unfortunate waves, but he still looks as wrecked when Yut-Lung catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror. Humiliation flashes through him, though soon replaced by anger at Blanca for daring to disturb him. 

Somehow, the nausea has increased threefold by the time he exits the bathroom, face freshly washed and hair gathered into a neater ponytail. The pull of the bed is magnetic and overpowering, and he barely bothers to check if Blanca has dutifully pissed off.

A shadow suddenly looms over him as he groans into the coverlet and, oh – the man’s still there.

“Go away…” Yut-Lung grumbles as Blanca looks down at him with a hint of concern. 

“If you’re going to fall asleep, you should at least change into your nightwear first. Sir.” Blanca chides.

At his words, Yut-Lung becomes conscious of the tight collar of his robe, but the steady throbbing in his head soon distracts him. “Hmm…”

Someone sighs above him, before silence once more settles in the room.

… _Maybe Blanca has finally left._ The thought floats in amongst his other miscellaneous musings, of Eiji Okumura… Golzine… the last barricades between him and complete control of the Lee family… 

Just then, Blanca decides to make a reappearance, in the form of a broad hand on his shoulder and another at the clasp of his robe.

“Hey – wha’?” He frowns, squinting against the light.

“Lie back, Your Highness. I brought you your nightclothes.” The words make no sense at first, until the robe is unbuttoned enough to bare one shoulder, then the next.

“Hey, wait! Wha’ ‘re –” His tongue is dry and cumbersome in his mouth, and he tries again. “Wha’ are you _doing_?”

“Care to dress yourself?”

“Mm –” What he’d care to do right now is bury himself under all the covers and succumb to unconsciousness as soon as possible. But he has to admit – shaking his arms to free them from his sleeves as Blanca watches the whole scene with a wry smile – the cotton top that is then tugged over his head is the most comfortable thing he can remember wearing. He yawns widely.

“Don’ need pants… you can piss off, thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

Despite Blanca’s usual invisible presence, Yut-Lung viscerally feels the moment he steps away from the bedside. 

“Wait – !” He cries out, something he’ll later refuse to admit had ever happened.

“Hm?”

“Sit down.”

“On the bed?” Blanca sounds amused.

“Yes, the bed.”

“I thought you were asking me to go a moment ago?”

Yut-Lung slaps his hand against the bed in what he hopes is a threatening manner, frowning as it bounces back up at him. “Sit _down_ , or I’ll stab you until all your limbs are paralysed and you regret being born.”

He reaches for his needles for emphasis, but frowns in confusion when his fingers card through only hair. “Hey, my –”

He distinctly remembers having his hair up for the most part of the evening, but his hair tie and the needles within it are nowhere to be seen. “Oh well, I can still – oh.” He looks over to come suddenly face-to-face with Blanca’s bulky figure perched halfway on the other side of the bed.

To his drink-addled brain, the next logical step is to roll and roll until he hits a wall of solid thigh, then pull the coverlet over himself and promptly shut his eyes.

“Um –”

“Don’ _move_! Unless you’re gonna go kill that – that Okumura bastard… Wang-Lung…?”

“You already disposed of him, sir.”

“Eiji?” He pries an eyelid open in hopeful expectation.

“No, your eldest brother.”

“Oh. Served him right… bitch.” He muffles a yawn into the strangely rough material against his cheek, nothing like his favourite pillow. Odd.

But no matter, Yut-Lung thinks idly, already near-submerged in unconsciousness. He feels warm, comfortingly so, and the last words that spill from his mouth before sleep overtakes him are:

“Did I paralyse your legs yet?”

A laugh. “No, not yet.”

(Blanca eases himself off the bed a few minutes into the first hour, when there’s a sizeable drool stain on one pant leg and a relentless grip on the other. The young master makes a quiet noise as he leaves, and Blanca shakes his head at the pitiable sight. He swipes one of the unopened bottles of wine on his way out.)

 

The next morning, Yut-Lung wakes to a pounding headache and a strange mishmash of memories from the previous night. He wrinkles his nose. What had that business been with Blanca…?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> one day i will master the art of the 5-10k chapter but today... today is not that day
> 
> edit: removed the blanca/yeet tag bc Yeah doubt their relationship will be progressing in any meaningful positive _romantic_ way


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> on the complexity of emotional catharsis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> welp heres the end of this Sudden fic i burped out in a matter of... days?  
> having writer's NOT-block feels great  
> enjoyo :^)

One regular Tuesday morning, Yut-Lung wakes to the familiar sight of rich-red curtains letting in just enough light to suffuse the room in a soft glow. Calm, he blinks slow and steady for the slightest moment before the tidal wave of reality comes crashing in once more.

_Curse the progression of time._

He has little interest in the morning’s newspaper on the nightstand and his stomach sours at the thought of breakfast, but there’s no getting around the fact of his responsibilities and the routine that comes with it. Begrudgingly, Yut-Lung forces himself out of bed to freshen up, carding his fingers through the minuscule tangles in his hair as he observes his reflection. A bit pallid, lately.

But then, he’d been anticipating this day for a while.

 

For thirty, Hua-Lung isn’t looking too good. _Maybe this is a glimpse into my future,_ Yut-Lung idly wonders, but then again, he has no plans to stay mostly confined to the same room for five years. His brother doesn’t look away from his seat by the window as Yut-Lung opens the door or calls:

“Brother dearest? How are you doing today?”

He’s not entirely sure why Hua-Lung has been privileged enough to live to this ripe old age – Yut-Lung definitely didn’t need his brother around by the time he’d turned eighteen and could represent the Lee family a fully-fledged adult. Sighing, Yut-Lung walks closer to his brother’s side and reaches out a hand to pull his face towards him. A vacant expression stares back at him, and Yut-Lung would wipe away the drool at one corner of a slackened mouth if he wasn’t feeling particularly displeased today.

“You’re disgusting, you know that?”

Hua-Lung is silent.

A grimace twists its way across Yut-Lung’s face. “You wait here now, okay? Your little brother has a surprise for you.”

He’s busy running through the options as he walks back out and securely locks the door. The locked chest in his quarters has a wealth of his favourite poisons and toxins, but also alongside them a set of freshly sharpened needles. What best to…

He settles on the needles eventually, after a long debate between death by diarrhoea, internal haemorrhaging, or paralysis. Less for the servants to clean up. He likes to think he’s being considerate.

Unsurprisingly, Hua-Lung is in his same seat when Yut-Lung returns, still gazing out of the window as if it’s the finest entertainment known to man. He looks so unassuming, Yut-Lung almost feels bad for what he’s about to do. Almost.

There’s a sweet catharsis in freely releasing his anger, in cleaning up something that should’ve been taken care of a long time ago, in celebrating his twenty-first with something for _himself_.

Hua-Lung jerks at the first prick.

“How’s that? You don’t feel too good, do you?” He should be feeling an excruciating pain in the joints of one finger, then the next, then the next, as Yut-Lung steadily works his way through one hand, pausing at the wrist.

His brother whimpers and leaks snotty tears. Embarrassing.

The rest of the limb goes the same way, but Yut-Lung is dismayed to find he feels barely a flicker of relief or joy at the sight of the sad husk of a man before him, writhing and groaning and incoherently crying out in his seat. It had seemed like such a good idea just moments ago, the perfect way to alleviate the heavy tangle of emotions in his chest, but…

Releasing a quiet exhale, Yut-Lung perches on the windowsill to look out that same window and at the sprawling city below. He can begin to see how the cars zipping down the network of roads might entertain a young child for hours – or someone with the mental age of one. Twirling his needle in one hand, Yut-Lung dispassionately turns back towards the room. The sight that greets him is not one that inspires joy.

“You’re so… disgusting, you know?” He sighs.

He had planned for something a little more elaborate, and the needle to Hua-Lung’s carotid seems too kind in comparison. A blessing, almost.

Dusting his hands off, Yut-Lung walks back outside, mind still a confused mess of emotion. He calls for the nearest servant.

“Master Lee Hua Lung has recently passed. Please take care of the body as per usual procedures.”

He’ll have to pencil in a date for a funeral in the near future – the sixth and final one to attend in recent years. With that business out of the way, Yut-Lung turns his mind towards lunch and waits for that rare swell of peace to waft into his head. He feels it on occasion, a tranquillity that comes with remembering Wang-Lung is dead.

 

During lunch he settles the rest of his affairs for the day, handing his duties off almost haphazardly. He doesn’t need this bullshit today. The food tastes less and less appealing with each mechanical chew until Yut-Lung pushes it aside with a huff to retreat to the peace of his private study.

Once there, the discomfort has yet to fade, but he forces another sip of wine down the tense column of his throat regardless, in the hopes it soothes his nerves. Or something. There’s a tantalising attraction in the prospect of getting blackout drunk at noon, but Yut-Lung has to forcibly remind himself that he’s not in his mid-teens anymore, _not_ as reckless and self-indulging as he once was. It’s what he likes to tell himself.

Instead, he turns to properly face the blank screen of his computer, swirls the glass one last time in contemplation, and resigns himself to his fate. He boots up the computer, swallows his pride, and scours the database for _Blanca_.

Sergei Varishkov. Blanca.

He’d always seemed so… benevolent and well-meaning, and Yut-Lung would never admit it, but if _he_ had such a mentor at fourteen…

He finally narrows it down to what must be the correct landline after tracing it through a series of duds. Blanca picks up on the first ring.

“Yes?”

“It’s Lee Yut Lung.”

“Oh, hello,” Blanca says conversationally. “As you should already know, I have been in retirement for the past years and am unfortunately unable to enter into another contract with you.”

“No, I’m –” Maybe Yut-Lung should have figured out what he was going to say before making the call, but he perseveres nonetheless, voice hitching on a desperate note. “I wanted to ask about Ash.”

“Is that so? That was an unfortunate turn of events – gone too soon, I’m afraid.”

“Yes, but – but why was he so weak? What did you do to him to make that happen?”

Blanca chuckles, not in humour. “It was nothing on my part. We are all weak inside, you know. Just that some are better at hiding it than others.”

“Hmph.” The business of the Japanese boy still troubles Yut-Lung to no end, and he doesn’t like Blanca’s implications. He had always drawn parallels between Ash and himself, but _that_ …

Yut-Lung feels unease crawl beneath his skin.

Blanca interrupts his thoughts. “If that will be all, Monsieur Yut-Lung, then I had better be getting back to my business.”

“What business?” Yut-Lung snorts. “Sampling all the wine and women the Caribbean has to offer?”

“Perhaps. Goodbye, then, and good fortune. Let us hope Ash Lynx doesn’t haunt you any longer.”

“He doesn’t – !” Yut-Lung cries, incensed, but Blanca has already hung up. Snide bastard.

To his dismay, the conversation leaves nothing but a slightly bitter taste in his mouth. Yut-Lung takes another sip of wine. Ash’s death really was a shame, and to think he threw it away all for – that boy. Man, now.

Another thing he’d never admit is the folder of comprehensive files he has on Eiji Okumura, from his history in Japan to when he started settling in New York and making a life for himself. Photography.

 

This is how he knows about the small exhibit Okumura will be jointly unveiling in a gallery downtown, and this is how he finds himself lurking on the edges of the small crowd that forms on that chilly Thursday morning.

Yut-Lung is dressed casually, hair up in what he hopes is an inconspicuous bun, but he still feels on edge as he faces a random painting a distance away, hyperaware of Okumura and his partner getting ready to address the lone reporter and small group of enthusiasts surrounding their photographic interpretations of New York City.

“Ladies and gentlemen, today we –”

Yut-Lung tunes them out, disinterested. What he _is_ interested in, however, is how Eiji Okumura has changed over the years, face hardening from that naïve little child he once was. He looks different, his eyes reflecting a muted glint of _something_ that a younger Yut-Lung would have been pleased to see. Now, however, he feels… unsure.

Their speech soon concludes, the crowd asks a few questions, and then Okumura and associate depart from the main gallery. Yut-Lung lets out a quiet sound of relief.

What slight urge he might have had to confront Okumura and tempt his features to twist in anger has now faded, and Yut-Lung instead occupies himself with the photographs of a city he knows like the back of his hand.

(The sight of skylines and silhouettes of buildings under ownership of the Lee family leaves a strange texture in his mouth. He turns to inspect something else.)

 

Sing Soo-Ling is a busy man, perhaps even busier than Yut-Lung himself (what with the business of college), but he easily agrees to meeting over lunch sometime during the next few days. They’re on better terms now, forced to be from the long hours of figuring out how to restore Chinatown to its previous stability.

The restaurant they decide to meet at is one jointly owned by the two of them, and Yut-Lung allows himself to relax in his seat as he waits for Sing to arrive. The man rushes in not a moment later, dressed in a well-worn hoodie and ripped jeans that Yut-Lung eyes for a second. Not everyone is born to wear business attire, he supposes.

Sing takes a seat. “Hey, what’s up?”

“Do I need a reason to meet with my good friend?” Yut-Lung replies smoothly.

“Yes, and usually something exploitative.”

Yut-Lung sips his water instead of smacking Sing over the head like his first instinct is telling him to do. “ _Anyway,_ how would – hmm – how would you feel about assuming full responsibility over Chinatown in the future?”

Sing raises a brow. “While you what? Lie around drinking wine all day?”

“This was a _hypothetical_ – ” Yut-Lung purses his lips as Sing interrupts.

“That could work once I’m done with my degree. Would make a good _apology_ …” He smirks, but Yut-Lung feels his blood run cold.

“For…?”

“Sheesh, dude, no need to look so worried. I’m not here to dig up any old animosity. As an _apology_ for letting Chinatown go to the dogs, I wanted to say.”

“Hmph.” 

They eat in silence for a moment, Sing idly tapping away on his pager before Yut-Lung nervously clears his throat.

“I-I saw Okumura the other day. Eiji Okumura.”

“Oh?” Sing raises his head to look at him, a troubled expression on his face. “And did he see you?”

“No.”

“Sneaky as always, huh?” Sing grins wryly.

“Have you… kept in contact with him?” 

Sing’s expression turns stony. “Yes I have.”

“How is he…?”

“Not the best. I think he would appreciate it if you stayed out of his life for now – he’s not looking for an apology.”

Flustered, Yut-Lung exclaims, “I wasn’t going to – !”

“Then why did you bring up the topic in the first place? Eiji isn’t a part of our world anymore, you know.”

He’s not too sure himself, and Yut-Lung quietly goes back to his food, part ashamed and moreso confused.

Once finished, they part on civil terms, Yut-Lung grateful for the fact Sing hadn’t picked apart that sudden shameful moment of weakness.

“Well, I’ve gotta be getting back to class. Let me know beforehand if you’re gonna mail me the keys to the city one day, yeah?”

“Will do.”

Yut-Lung watches for a moment as Sing walks away, before turning to his driver parked by the curb and snaps, “We’re leaving.”

 

Hua-Lung’s cremation and funeral are both kept private, and the next day his urn sits in the family tomb as if it had always been there, alongside his brothers’. Yut-Lung impassively studies the newly-engraved plaque and accompanying photo. He’ll have to leak the news of Hua-Lung’s death from his chronic and crippling ‘disease’ some day, but for now he will enjoy the lack of media attention.

Not that the press ever suspects him, he recalls as his eyes track across the other intricate urns, but he still has to take the time to come up with an appropriately grieving statement and hash out the business of redistributing his brothers’ assets.

Yut-Lung carelessly browses through the rest of his deceased relatives and the centuries of history before him, until he finally lands on the only one that means a slightest damn thing to him.

His mother’s.

Bitterly, he’s surprised she even got an urn and slot of space to call her own. The ceramic jar is visibly a lot smaller than most of the others, and the plaque barely big enough to include her name, dates of birth and death, and grainy photo.

Despite remaining the strongest person in his life, she appears frail and pale in the photo, expression unsure as whoever behind the camera captured her likeness in a flash of light. Yut-Lung feels heavy and drained, and he lets himself fall silently to his knees in front of her quiet tomb. A layer of dust has built up on the glass sealing her plaque and urn into the small safe haven, and Yut-Lung brushes it off with a sleeve.

In doing so, he catches a glimpse of himself reflected in the glass and feels his stomach turn in discomfort. He should feel proud that he’s looking more and more like the strongest woman he’s known, but all Yut-Lung can think of is how unfair it was, to have the odds of the universe stacked against you.

She didn’t deserve that.

“You’re… safe now, Ma.” Safe from that oppressive presence only half a room away, but there’s only so much Yut-Lung can do. And he was fifteen years too late in doing so, Yut-Lung miserably thinks, eyes tracing the smoothly carved characters detailing her date of death.

_1975…_

When she had been on the cusp of turning twenty-two and forever frozen in barely-adulthood. At the reminder, Yut-Lung seethes, trembles, feels his face crumple.

He’d kill them twice over, thrice, if he had the power to do so, but for now there’s nothing he can do but relive what little liberation he had felt over the past years. It’s pitifully minimal, and he hates himself for it.

“What else do I have to do, Ma…?” He wipes his nose on his sleeve; sneezes when dust puffs into his nostrils.

She has no answer for him.

Suddenly, he feels an overwhelming urge to return to infancy, when his only responsibility was to fall asleep in his mother’s arms and dutifully finish every meal. But now the Lee clan has only him at its head and there is but one way forwards.

He stands up and walks out of the building.

 

(That evening, the fading sunlight paints the skies of New York a dappled pink-blue. On his balcony facing the river, Yut-Lung waits for the first sign of indigo as he nurses a fresh cup of tea. It tastes like his childhood.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and now to move onto bigger and better things (fics) à la Yeet (or perhaps not... its up to u to decide what he does with his life now)
> 
> :3

**Author's Note:**

> hmu on [tumblr](https://swummeng-geys.tumblr.com) or [twitter](https://twitter.com/hashtag_yikes) bc i need to meet more ppl who r into banana fish


End file.
